


over the river (and through the woods)

by jessalae



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: DILFs, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Smut, Loud Sex, M/M, Mosaic Timeline (The Magicians: A Life in the Day), Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28433064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae
Summary: It’s not that Eliot doesn’t ever kiss him — it’s not that they never have sex, or evenrarelyhave sex; they find ways and steal moments. But when it’s just the two of them in the house, it’s something totally different.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 10
Kudos: 59
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	over the river (and through the woods)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hoko_onchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/gifts).



> Thank you to Sylph for betaing!

“These smell amazing, Reeda, thank you,” Quentin says, hefting the basket.

“Well, since I can’t let you have the recipe, it only seems right to bring you some whenever I come by,” she says. Her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles. She looks so much like her daughter that it always stabs at Quentin’s heart to see her, but— in a good way, now, after a few years. Almost a comfortable way.

“I still say you _could_ let us have the recipe,” Quentin wheedles. “Teddy’s a direct descendant, he’s entitled to the family secrets.”

“And he’ll have them when he’s old enough to be trusted near the oven himself,” Reeda returns, the usual rhythm of this play-argument.

“Teddy—” Eliot’s voice echoes from inside the house, sounding frazzled. “Put on shoes—”

Their son bursts out the front door, wearing pants, a shirt put on backwards, and one sock. No shoes. “Nana!” he yells, sprinting at Reeda, who braces herself and absorbs the shock of his full-speed hug with the practice of many years of grandmothering.

“Teddy, my love,” she says, sweetly with a dangerous edge to her voice. “What did your father just say to you?”

“Shoes,” Teddy says, muffled by her skirts.

“And what do good little otters do?”

Teddy sighs heavily. “Listen to their fathers.”

She squeezes him around the shoulders and bends down far enough to kiss the top of his head. “Be a good otter.”

Teddy scampers back into the house, past Eliot, who’s standing in the doorway with Teddy’s little rucksack of clothes packed and ready in his hand. “I have to remember to use that song,” he sighs. “Those rhymes are the only thing that he’ll listen to, some days.”

“Works on nearly all Fillorian children,” Reeda says, then smiles tightly. “Without meaning any offense.”

“None taken,” Eliot says easily. 

There’s no point in them taking offense, anyway, when she’s correct. They’re not Fillorian parents, they don’t know the tips and tricks that someone would have learned from generations of oral tradition and watching family members parent. They don’t even fucking know any tips or tricks that worked on Earth. Quentin had never thought he’d live long enough to have kids, but if by some miracle he had, he would have had to buy every parenting book from every bookstore and memorized every word to have any chance of understanding how to deal with these tiny humans.

Teddy re-emerges, two socks and two shoes this time, shirt still backwards but that never killed anyone. Eliot snags him by the shoulder, helps him put on his rucksack. Then he crouches down, folding himself up so he’s eye-to-eye with their six-year-old.

“Say hello to all the cousins for us,” he instructs. “Don’t go near the well. Do as your grandmother says.”

“I _know_ , Papa,” Teddy whines, squirming in place. Eliot’s firm gaze somehow holds him in one spot. He’s way better at the Dad Glare than Quentin is. “I’ll be good. I love you.”

Eliot’s face splits into a grin. He’s a sucker for sappy things like that, and Teddy knows it. “I love you too, Teddy Bear.” He kisses Teddy’s forehead, ruffles his hair. “Go say bye to your Dad.”

Quentin’s knees are having a bad day from doing two patterns yesterday (and seriously, he’s not even forty, is that supposed to be happening already?) so instead of crouching, he puts the basket of baked goods down and grabs Teddy under the armpits, says, “Ready, two, three, jump—” and Teddy jumps high enough that Quentin can pick him up, get an arm under his hips and hold him. He’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to do this, he’s getting _heavy_ , but for now, it’s good. He hugs Teddy tight, kisses his cheek.

“Everything Papa said goes for me too,” he says. “Love you.”

“Love too, Dada,” Teddy says dutifully, and then writhes until Quentin is forced to put him down. “Ready, Nana!” he singsongs, rushing over to take her hand.

“So you are,” she says. Eliot has come over and slipped his arm around Quentin’s waist, squeezing Quentin against his side, and she looks up at both of them. “We’ll see you in a week’s time.”

They watch them walk away, grandmother and grandson, waving happily in case Teddy looks back over his shoulder.

“Are those Reeda’s thyme rolls in that basket?” Eliot asks, never taking his eyes off the road.

“Sure are.”

“Fuck yes.” Eliot’s grin widens even further. “That’s dinner figured out, then.”

“And breakfast.”

“I was going to make eggs for breakfast.”

“I don’t know that you’ll have a chance,” Quentin says lightly.

Reeda and Teddy are past the first rows of trees, her deep red skirt still just visible beyond the foliage.

“You think that’s long enough?”

“Patience, Q.” Eliot’s arm squeezes tighter around his waist.

“...how about now?”

“Seriously?”

“Okay,” Quentin says, squinting, absolutely certain he can’t see his son or mother-in-law anymore. “I think—”

“—now,” Eliot finishes for him, and then he’s turning and pulling Quentin in and kissing him _hard_ , open-mouthed, sloppy.

“Mm,” Quentin sighs happily, pushing up, licking into Eliot’s mouth. Eliot grabs the nape of his neck, and Quentin shudders.

Eliot pulls back a bit, planting quick kisses on the corner of Quentin’s mouth, the curve of his cheek, as Quentin growls and tries to turn so he can get at Eliot’s mouth again. “Jesus,” Eliot murmurs, low and teasing. “You’d think I never kissed you.”

“Never _enough_ ,” Quentin says. “Especially not like _this_.” He slides his fingers into Eliot’s hair, pulls until they’re kissing again, sinks his teeth into Eliot’s bottom lip.

They stumble inside still kissing, shut the door still kissing, move towards the bed and only stop kissing when Quentin shoves Eliot back so he’ll sprawl across it, letting out a startled, delighted laugh as he goes.

“So that’s how we’re playing it today,” he says, smiling wickedly at Quentin, getting all the way on the bed and letting his hands drift towards the tie of his shirt.

“Get naked,” Quentin orders, already out of his shoes and shirt and working on the laces of his pants. If he doesn’t have Eliot’s bare skin against his in thirty seconds he’s pretty sure he’ll lose his mind. 

It’s not that Eliot doesn’t ever kiss him — it’s not that they never have sex, or even _rarely_ have sex; they find ways and steal moments. But when it’s just the two of them in the house, it’s something totally different. They can undress all the way, spend time on things like “foreplay” and “making it last”. Get fully wrapped up in each other, the way they haven’t had many opportunities to do, in the last six years. Make _noise_.

That’s Quentin’s favorite part, maybe, getting to scream as loud as he wants. He’d never been _loud_ during sex until Eliot. Nobody else had ever gotten him out of his head enough for that. Sex had been fun, obviously, pleasurable, something he’d wanted — _so badly_ , at many points in his life — maybe wanted too much, because whenever he got to have some, his brain would go into desperate overdrive: 

_this is happening, it’s happening, finally, it’ll be better than last time — forget last time — last time was fine, the time before that was— no, focus, it’s happening_ now _, is that, am I doing that right? Is that good? They made a noise, I think it was a good noise, didn’t sound like that other girl but— oh god fuck yes, can I say yes out loud? Is that cheesy? Better just, focus, kiss there, move like that, make it good—_

and on and on. Most of the times he’d rolled over and passed out after sex, it’d been because he was _mentally_ exhausted, not physically.

But with Eliot, sex isn’t just fun, pleasurable, it’s— _freeing_. Eliot takes him apart, blows every thought out of his head, removes every word except _fuck_ and _please_ and _yes_ from his vocabulary. With Eliot, Quentin can try things out; he can ask for what he wants; he can make mistakes, recover from them, and go at it a different way. The phrase “throes of passion” isn’t just some fake cliche from romance novels, it’s an actual headspace that exists, and one that Quentin can get to.

Speaking of which— he’s mouthing his way over Eliot’s neck, ignoring the sting of stubble against his lips. He finds his favorite spot, licks, kisses, sucks and bites it bright red until he gets the kind of whimper he’s looking for, just the right side of _hurts so good_. Eliot’s broad hands are all over him, petting over his skin, taking the time to squeeze and knead at the backs of his thighs before they cup his ass. Eliot’s curls are silky-soft beneath his fingers. Their cocks are nestled together between their bodies, starting to thicken up in the heat and press of them.

“How would you like me this time?” Eliot asks, low and soft against Quentin’s temple. “Tell me.”

“In me,” Quentin says, his hips jerking forward to rub their cocks together. “From behind, really just fucking giving it to me.” He spreads his legs wider across Eliot’s thighs as Eliot’s fingers dip into the cleft of his ass, tease across his entrance. “Make me forget my fucking _name_.”

Eliot laughs, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “I think I can make that happen,” he says.

Before Quentin knows it he’s got his face in the pillows, Eliot pulling his hips up and spreading his cheeks. He shudders as Eliot traces a series of familiar sigils on his lower back, the magic crackling over his skin until Eliot finishes the spell and it seeps into him, rushes through his body, leaving him a little breathless and strangely tingly inside. The sensation of the prep spell still hasn’t stopped being weird — according to Eliot, nobody really ever gets used to it, even Magicians who have been using it for decades. Quentin’s willing to put that assumption to the test, though. Extensively and repeatedly. Still feels weird today? Guess we’ll have to try it again tomorrow.

Eliot’s huge hands grip the backs of Quentin’s thighs, squeezing. His scruff rubs over the base of Quentin’s spine as he kisses the small of Quentin’s back. “Can you wait just a little longer, darling?” Eliot asks. “Let me get my tongue inside you?”

“Yeah,” Quentin gasps, half-laughing. “I think I can maybe suffer through that. _Oh_ , fuck,” he says, as Eliot’s teeth sink into the swell of his ass. His cock feels heavy between his legs, swaying a little as he pushes back into Eliot’s grip.

Eliot bends down — Quentin can feel his curls on the backs of his thighs, his breath ghosting hot over sensitive skin — and presses the flat of his tongue right to Quentin’s hole, licks over it sloppy and wet, makes Quentin rut back against him. “God,” Quentin breathes. “Get me all wet for you, make me feel amazing— _fuck_ , mm, more—” He lets his eyes close, lets something in his chest unwind, groaning out an endless string of filth, everything he’s feeling, everything he wants Eliot to make him feel.

Eliot laughs open-mouthed against his skin, drawing the point of his tongue around the furled muscle again, and then again. He licks more broad stripes over it, different directions, Quentin’s hole clenching and spasming every time his tongue passes over the sensitive skin. Quentin turns his head to the side so Eliot will still be able to hear him even as he grinds his face down into the pillows.

Getting his ass eaten is another thing he’d definitely never done B.E., Before Eliot. He’d _thought_ it, jerked off about it — gotten _this close_ to asking, one time, when he’d managed to get himself a friend-with-benefits in college who was into pegging and so already knew her way around an asshole — but how could you just, _ask_ someone to do that? Hi, sexual partner. You’ve enjoyed putting your tongue in my mouth, could I perhaps interest you in doing the same to the other end of my body? No, that’s gross? Okay, fair enough, thank you for your time, I’ll just go now.

Turns out magic has a solution for the grossness factor, but Quentin had still been embarrassed to bring it up, early on, never sure what would be the last straw that broke this fragile thing they were building between them — and then Eliot had offered before he’d even asked. Eliot fucking loves eating him out, holding tight to his thighs and burying his face between Quentin’s cheeks, working his talented tongue right where Quentin is so fucking sensitive, where he’d never have _known_ he was so sensitive if it wasn’t for Eliot.

“So good,” Quentin mumbles, his voice slightly muffled by the press of pillows against his cheek. “Fuck, _oh_ fuck—” he shoves back hard as Eliot slides a hand up his thigh and in, starts lazily stroking his cock as he eats him out. “So fucking good, baby, your tongue is amazing, please can I have it in me— yes _yes_ fuck oh my god,” he finishes, as Eliot stiffens his tongue and pushes it through the tight clench of Quentin’s hole.

His shoulders sink further towards the mattress, his back arching and his ass pushing into the air. Eliot tongues him over and over, his hole flutters and opens a little more with each press, flexes and clamps down every time Eliot’s loose fist strokes down to the head of his cock. He’s moaning almost continuously — the rhythmic curls of Eliot’s tongue, his little hums of satisfaction vibrating over Quentin’s hole, are so fucking good. “Okay,” he gasps, when he finally can’t fucking stand it any longer, he needs _more_. “Time for you to fuck me.”

Eliot pulls back, licks once more over Quentin’s hole. “If you insist,” he sighs, voice rough and full of humor.

“I fucking _insist_ ,” Quentin says, wiggling his ass. Eliot smacks it lightly, and Quentin chokes out a moan.

“Soon,” Eliot says, warm, promising. “I’ll be inside you soon.”

“Can’t be soon enough,” Quentin pants as Eliot uncorks the little stoneware jar of lube they keep in the bedside table, slips two oiled fingers right into him, longer and firmer than his tongue but still not _enough_. “You got me so nice and open already, you can just push that huge cock into me as soon as I’m all slicked up.”

“We have a whole week ahead of us,” Eliot says. “I’m not going to fuck you unprepped the first day and ruin my meticulously planned sex schedule.”

“I’m prepped, I can take you.” Quentin rocks himself back onto Eliot’s fingers, the slide hot and easy. Eliot adds a third and Quentin groans. “See, I’m ready, want you in me, _please_.”

There’s a spot at Quentin’s waist, just above his hip bones, where Eliot’s hands fit absolutely perfectly, broad palms hot against his tingling skin, thumbs digging into the dimples in his back. Eliot holds him there as he slides inside, slow enough to make Quentin groan and fist his hands in the sheets, fast and firm enough to bottom out in one stroke. “Fuck, baby,” Eliot says, his voice shaking.

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, the word feeling soft and loose around the edges. The stretch of Eliot’s cock inside him is deliciously overwhelming, just the right side of _too big_. Quentin’s had lots of practice taking it, at this point in their lives. He’s well beyond his first days of being frantically horny but also just frantic, scared, whining out _I don’t know, El, it might not— what if I can’t make it_ fit _—_ as Eliot petted his back, kissed the knobs of his spine, waited with absolute patience for Quentin to relax and let him in another inch. He’s beyond those days, but Eliot hasn’t gotten any fucking _smaller_ , and just because Quentin knows how to make space for him, take in the whole thick length of him, doesn’t mean his brain doesn’t short the fuck out every time Eliot’s thighs first hit his ass.

“Tell me when you’re ready,” Eliot murmurs, like Quentin doesn’t always. Quentin nods, breathes into it as his body twitches around the intrusion, adjusts itself.

“Ready,” he says finally, when he’s sure he can’t wait another second. “Hard. Please.”

“We have all week—”

“ _Hard_ , Eliot,” Quentin says, and grabs two handfuls of pillow, bracing himself. “Make me fucking scream.”

Eliot’s hands grip tighter on Quentin’s hips, and he makes a short, breathy noise. “Understood.” 

The slide out is harsh, so fast Quentin's breath goes with it, but it's nothing compared to the thrust back in. Eliot slams himself home, pulling Quentin's hips back against him with a smack. Quentin shouts, feels the reverberation of it all the way up his spine and down through his legs. Eliot thrusts again, and again, smoothing out his strokes, getting into a rhythm.

“Is this what you want?” Eliot asks, the question grated out between harsh breaths. “Am I fucking you hard enough?”

“God, _yes_ ,” Quentin says, his voice breaking as Eliot fills him up again. “So _fucking_ good.”

Eliot keeps fucking him, keeps his near-bruising grip on Quentin’s hips. The thick stretch of him feels incredible, the fat head of his cock shoving in at just the right angle to make Quentin gasp on every stroke. “You get so impatient, sometimes,” he says, “but I always give you what you need, huh?”

Quentin’s nerves are on fire, his eyes are basically rolling back in his head with how good it feels. “Always,” he gasps, “gimme, fuck, gimme _all of it, god Jesus fuck—_ ”

“So fucking _greedy_.” Eliot’s voice is taking on that gravelly quality, and Quentin can imagine his face contorting, lip curling up with effort as he works himself hard and fast into Quentin’s aching body. “Talk to me, tell me how it feels.”

And Quentin _does_ — he _can_ , or maybe more accurately he can’t _not_. The words spill out of him freely as he clutches the pillows, arches his back, feels the heat of his desire build every time Eliot thrusts into him. “God I fucking _love_ it, you fill me up so much, so good— El, _Christ_ like that— when you get rough with me, like you just, you could fucking _destroy_ me with that big fucking cock, split me open, fuck me until I can’t breathe it’s so fucking good, fuck me till I _cry—_ ” 

With his ass in the air like this, his own cock is swinging heavy and poundingly hard but untouched, no friction from the bed, Eliot’s hands too good where they squeeze his hips to ask him to move them and jerk him off. He’s dragging in huge gasps of air, his words getting fewer and further between as his head empties of thoughts and refills with pure need. “Good, oh— love it, love you— yes _yes yes fuck oh—_ ” He’s getting louder, too, the words shouted across their cottage, echoing out the windows across their clearing, but there’s nobody around to hear them — it’s just them, the two of them, held tight together by this quest and this life they’ve built and also very literally by Eliot’s _massive dick all the way inside Quentin’s body,_ making his blood sing in his veins every time it drags out of him and shoves back in.

Eliot’s audibly panting, muttering _fuck, god, baby_ under his breath, choking out each syllable. “You want to come,” he gasps, “with my dick in you, fucking you, or after, fuck— you better fucking decide quick—”

“In me, Jesus yes _Eliot fuck—_ ” Eliot loops one arm under Quentin’s body to keep holding him in place, doesn’t break his rhythm even for a second. His broad palm wraps around Quentin’s cock, his thumb presses along the vein on the underside, and Quentin’s whole body twitches, his balls drawing up. He _screams_ , full-throated and wordless. Eliot starts stroking him loosely and Quentin loses all ability to think, to form words, to do anything but squeeze his eyes shut and sob as Eliot drives against his prostate and works his oversensitive cock for really not very much time at all before he’s coming with his whole fucking body, shaking, yelling, clamping down on Eliot’s cock.

“Oh my god,” Eliot chokes out, shaky, “oh my god—” and Quentin _feels_ it, feels it when he starts to shake apart, spill all over Quentin’s insides. He collapses forward over Quentin’s trembling body, hips pressed tight against Quentin’s ass, moaning out the last waves of his orgasm against the tattoo between Quentin’s shoulder blades.

“God,” Quentin breathes. His voice is hoarse, his back is starting to complain about supporting Eliot’s weight, but he doesn’t want to _move_ , the sweaty press of Eliot’s chest against his tingling skin is too good. “God.”

Eliot groans and tips sideways, pulling Quentin down with him into a spooning position. He kisses the side of Quentin’s neck, noses into the crook of his shoulder. “I hope that,” he says, still panting a little, “met your expectations.”

“Jesus _Christ_ , Eliot, of course it fucking did.”

“Just checking.” Eliot strokes Quentin’s hip, squeezes his thigh. “We have a whole week ahead of us, you know. If there’s room for improvement, we have time to workshop it.”

Quentin sighs, groans a little when Eliot eases his spent cock out of him and tucks it carefully between their bodies. “I love our son,” he says. “Obviously I do, but— I mean.”

“It’s nice to really be able to _fuck_?”

“ _So_ fucking nice.”

Eliot kisses the back of Quentin’s neck, over and over, brief little presses of his lips. “There are so many things I want to do to you, while we’re by ourselves,” he murmurs.

“Oh yeah?”

“Wake you up sucking you off. Hold you down, tie you up. Get my legs up over your shoulders so you can fuck me deep.”

Quentin snorts. “Good luck with that last one, yoga boy.”

“I bet I can still do it.” Eliot sighs. “But. Later.” His kissing widens into a yawn, and Quentin giggles at the rush of air over the nape of his neck. “After a nap.”

“Naps,” Quentin says wistfully, already feeling himself drifting that way as well. “Another thing I miss.”

“A whole week ahead of us,” Eliot says, his voice heavy with sleep. He lifts his hands lazily from Quentin’s body, tuts through the spell to clean them up a little and pulls a blanket over them with a tug of telekinesis. “We’ll have plenty of time.”

“Mm.”

Quentin closes his eyes, wriggles himself back further into Eliot’s arms. _Naps_ , he thinks. _Sleeping. Sleep. Good little sheep go right to sleep…_

“Fuck,” he mutters.

“What?”

“I have that fucking song stuck in my head now.”

Eliot makes a pained noise. “ _Why_ would you _tell_ me that.”

“Had to share the pain.”

“Dick.” Eliot sighs heavily through Quentin’s hair. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I am,” Quentin says. “I really fucking am.”

**Author's Note:**

> All The Livelong Day, a Fillorian children's song:
> 
> _What do good little badgers do?  
>  I’ll tell you what they do, they do:  
> Good little badgers mind their manners  
> All the livelong day, o!_
> 
> _What do good little otters do?  
>  I'll tell you what they do, they do:  
> Good little otters listen to their fathers  
> And good little badgers mind their manners  
> All the livelong day, O!_
> 
> Continue as above, adding as many additional verses as your child wants:  
>  _Good little llamas listen to their mamas  
>  Good little sheep go right to sleep  
> Good little squirrels are kind to all boys and girls  
> Good little birds stay out of the woods  
> Good little sparrows don’t play with swords or arrows  
> Good little fish help mama in the kitchen_
> 
> Repeat until you lose your entire goddamn mind. Then repeat again.


End file.
